The Garden of Darkness

“Beats death.”


Jem got down off the rock and gave his hand to Clare to help her down. The grass beyond the ferns was damp, and they walked through it back to the camp, where Ramah was waiting for them.

The next day dawned bright and glorious, and, as they walked, Bear rushed into the grass ahead of her, flushed a pheasant out of the underbrush and went streaking after it.

“Good news,” said Clare. “Nobody’s here to shoot the pheasant.”

“Bad news?” asked Jem.

“I think it’s going to be Bear’s lunch.” But, to her surprise, the pheasant took quickly to the sky, leaving Bear behind, a black dot against the ripe gold landscape.

When they reached a hill, conversation stopped for a while. A butterfly alighted on Ramah’s pack. Bear panted, his pink and black tongue lolling. The light flickered through the trees.

Clare thought of Thyme House, and she thought of the deep past, when she had been needy and lonely. Such a very long time ago.

That day they camped away from the road in the center of a ring of trees. Small yellow flowers glowed against the moss at the base of the trees and reminded Clare of the gold coins they’d found in the attic of Thyme House. As evening came in, they built a small fire, for comfort as much as for anything else, because the nights were no longer so cold. Clare heated up some food, and they all ate well. Then the three of them crawled into the tent, as, overhead, the Big Bear, the Little Bear, Gemini and Virgo wheeled in the sky.





CLARE WOKE IN the dark with a start. Bear was asleep at her feet. She carefully unzipped the flap and looked out, and at once Bear was up and by her side, but Clare stopped him with a gesture. Deep in his throat, he growled.

She saw the figure of a man sitting by the fire. He was warming his hands, and, as the orange coals flared up, she could see he was smiling. He didn’t behave like a Cured, but he was old. Clare thought that maybe he was fifty—more than twenty years older than any age a delayed-onset could hope to reach. She was glad Bear was with her. His reaction was the only thing that made her think she probably wasn’t dreaming the man. Even so, she wasn’t certain. She could, after all, be dreaming Bear too.

Clare looked from Bear to the man, then she sent Bear to the end of the sleeping bag and whispered “down.” After all, if she so much as breathed distress he would come crashing through the tent’s netting to save her. She went outside as quietly as she could.

“I was waiting for you to wake up,” he said. “Your dog wouldn’t come over and keep me company.”

“He doesn’t like strangers,” said Clare.

“He didn’t mind my watching you make camp. He didn’t give me away, and I think that’s a good sign, don’t you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what you might have done to him.”

“You think I drugged your dog? You think I hypnotized your dog? I’ve always gotten along well with dogs. And other animals. As long as they understand the rules.”

“I should wake the others.” Clare wondered why she hadn’t done so already. She almost called Bear right then, but the man was so very old. She wanted to hear his story.

“But I want to meet you,” he said. It was as if he could read her mind. Clare went out and sat on the ground across the fire from what was surely the oldest man in the world. His face bore no signs of Pest, but it was a worn face; it was a face, Clare thought, that had seen many things. He wore jeans and a shirt that was buttoned up tightly against the cool night air.

“Why me?” asked Clare.

“I’ve heard of you and your dog. I received a full description,” he said. “One of my children talked about you.”

“You have children?”

“Have you been travelling long?” he asked. And Clare didn’t mind the change in direction the conversation was taking. Rather than hear his story, she found herself wanting to tell him everything. But somehow she didn’t think that telling him would be a good idea.

Bear, she noted, had left the end of her sleeping bag and was standing at the flap of the tent. His eyes glowed in the firelight.

“A lot of things have happened,” she said. “We’ve been different places.”

“What place are you thinking about now?”

“Home.”

“Thyme House,” he said.

“How did you know?”

“I heard you talking as you were setting up camp.”

“You eavesdropped.”

“I consider these woods mine. So I suppose the conversations in them are mine, too.”

“What about you? Who are you?”

“A traveler. And I’ve got something to offer you.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“As we speak, the Cured are moving into the countryside and destroying what they find. Your Thyme House will eventually perish, long before the time comes when the patches fail and the Cured die.”